Poetry Map of Scotland poem no. 30: Great Western Road, Glasgow

negate the meat

the end of days are an eternal conditionalways looping backheavy with sign and portent.He falls with the contours of the pavement,letting the uneven footsteps guide his drunken compassdown hill and past the wrought iron fence.

Even though the sun shines you can't helpbut feel the drowning vegetationthrough your damp feet.Followthe flow of the water -it must lead somewhere.

The way it presses against you. Almostinsidiously, like a creepy uncle.His voice curls endless whisper tonegatethemeat. These people are likegaping flesh wounds. It isn't polite to look.Also advisable to plug up your lugs with gauzeand Vaseline. Unfortunately, this attractsattention.You desperately need to hide yourselfin some way - if only for the benefit offuture generations. The fearthat these people work in televisionis very tangibleandyou worry that the condition maybe infectious.

You knew a guy once - swallowedup by the artisan cheesecrowd.Only thing left of hima memory. Skulkedthe twittersphere for dayslike a bad instagrammed meal.

He leaves quickly soas not to be noticed.

The city doesn’t hum,it creaks and moans.Glasgow has real old bonespolished up real goodin the spirit ofhomogenised milk.Doesn’t mean you can’t smell it. That dust of living decades.

On the underground this smell condenses – almost pure vapours.Catches you in the back of the throat. Hard not to gag.Going aroundand aroundthe circle linefeels like being suckedthrough an unpleasant future.